


Bad Blood

by TheSushiMonster



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:40:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Leopold Fitz and Jemma Simmons only care about each other, with bloody results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlvsdove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re gonna have to wait to bury that one.” AU: Jemma and Fitz do not care about anyone other than themselves.

The small town welcomes them on a Sunday afternoon, in late summer, when the humidity has mixed with light breezes that tangle around their skin. Fitz squeezes Jemma’s hand before pulling into an empty parking lot. When Jemma stretches out of the car, hair curled around her shoulders, she lifts her shades to squint into the setting sun.

“It’s too bright,” she says. She nods towards the trunk. “We’re gonna have to wait to bury that one.”

Fitz shrugs. “Shouldn’t matter in a little bit. Delta or Hotel?” He tightens his tie as he shakes out his hair, his own sunglasses sitting on the driver’s seat.  There’s a blood stain on his shirt.

“Hotel,” says Jemma quickly, grabbing the gas masks from the backseat. “Can’t wait to test out the new formula I designed.”

“I can’t wait to use the new gun I invented,” says Fitz, wiping down said toy, his eyes glittering. Jemma loves him when he shines his guns – he’s happy and proud and excited. It’s infectious. Jemma waves the second gas mask in front of his face, but instead of grabbing it, he grabs her. She giggles into his embrace, winding her arms around his neck, bending backwards over the back of the car.

Fitz kisses her like she’s the only thing that matters in the world. Jemma knows this because it’s the truth.

“Mmmm,” she says into his lips, pulling forward so she can straighten his tie. The stain over his heart could be ink, situated as if a pen had just burst at a normal day at the office. Jemma smirks as her finger outlines the burst blood cells that scar his shirt, another trophy to match the corpse sitting beneath the metal she leans on.

He raises an eyebrow at her smirk, but when she kisses him instead, he probably understands. “Ready?” he says, breathless, and her excitement matches his sparkling eyes.

“Ready.”

Fitz takes his gun after Jemma carefully places the vial in the cartridge and she hopes he knows how proud she is – of him, of _them_.

The abandoned town awakens when Fitz leans down and kisses her softly. “I know,” he whispers into her lips, before slipping on the gas mask. Jemma follows him, slipping the blade from her ankle, twirling the handle in her hand.

Fitz looks at her. The mask obscures his face, but he’s in black and red, with blue death in his hands. She knows his smile is only for her: it’s as red as the blood on her hands and as black as the shadows in her soul.

“Love you,” she says, her voice loud enough to gain the attention of their first victim. Jemma waits a beat, for Fitz to laugh, before she throws her poison-tipped blade.

(When Fitz and Jemma leave hours later, breath stained in beer and donuts, Jemma is wearing Fitz’s pristine tie over a floral dress and Fitz wears a stolen suit. There are no screams.)


	2. wink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “BANG. Just kidding.” Sometimes, maybe, they go too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much gorier than the previous chapter (originally posted as the one-shot "smile")

Fitz stands with one hand on his waist, fingers tapping against his back, the other holding the gun. "Which one should I kill first?” he asks no one, because Jemma grins as she slices thin scars into a woman’s neck. “Hm, you,” he says, pointing the gun at a handsome young man. His cheekbones are too perfect, Fitz believes – it’s a crime against humanity. While the man struggles against the ropes tied around his wrist, the other hostages slide away from him. Fitz grins. “BANG. Just kidding.” The man flinches noticeably and Fitz throws back his head and laughs. “I said bang out loud but didn't shoot the gun. It’s funny, get it?”  He’s greeted with mostly silence – the only acknowledgement of his joke is Jemma, giggling as she cuts off an eyeball, the screams of pain cut off harshly by her blade to the woman’s throat.

Fitz shrugs, turning back to the man. “Okay, but seriously – you die first." The man opens his mouth but Fitz pulls the trigger. At this angle, Fitz suspects the bullet punctures the ribs and the lungs, lodging soundly into the heart. A trickle of blood seeps out of the man’s mouth. Fitz samples some drops onto his finger, sniffing. “Jemma, baby, I think this one was an alcoholic!”

Jemma looks up from her prey, the singular hazel eye in her hand discarded at his words. “Really?” She rushes over, eyes dancing, and Fitz smiles at her when she licks his finger. “Hmm – definitely a high blood alcohol level.” Fitz ignores the blood rushing downwards at the sight of her face – eyes half-closed, tiny smile, cheeks glowing.

He must have let out a groan because Jemma smirks. “What?” he asks, before she leans towards him to wipe his finger on his trousers. Her own fingers skim closely to his inner thighs and she must have caught his breath with her lips, because she grins when she kisses him. “You’re the worst.”

“I know.” Jemma heads to the body, ignoring the three remaining strugglers. As Jemma pulls out the dead guy’s wallet, Fitz notices one girl in the corner, eyes steeled and glaring. She’s pretty hot, Fitz admits, but the fire in her eyes makes him slightly nervous.

Fitz is never nervous. “Hey,” he says, leaning over Jemma as she reads the driver’s license. “I don’t like her.” He nods towards the girl in the corner, dark brown hair braided and leather jacket stuck to her skin. Her golden earrings glitter in the shadows. 

Jemma searches him, her hand on his shoulder. She frowns. “Don’t worry, I got her,” she says, smiling softly. Her thumb on his cheek reassures him and Fitz takes the card she hands over, watching as she glides towards the corner and the intimidating girl.

“Grant Ward,” says Fitz out loud, thumb skimming over raised letters. Something glitters in the corner of his eye; frowning, he leans over Ward’s chest and pulls out a badge. “Jem, this one’s a cop. Well,” he says, rolling his eyes, “ _was_ a cop.”

There’s a tiny screech from the corner, but the badge intrigues him. He pockets it just when Jemma says, “and I think this one knew him.”

Fitz perks up. “Really?” There’s an echo, Jemma’s voice in his head that matches the one from feet away, and Fitz grins. Without looking, he fires two shots. Turning back, he nods proudly: two men, both dead, one with a bullet straight through his brain and the other through his neck. Fitz tilts his head. “Later, I wanna sketch the scatter pattern. It kind of looks like a turtle.”

“Of course, dear,” says Jemma and when Fitz walks toward her he notices her blade dancing across the girl’s chest. “She won’t tell me her name,” she says, and if Fitz didn’t know any better he’d think she’s pouting. Jemma swirls the blade, leaving a spiral cut on the girl’s skin.

When her eyes lock onto his, Fitz shifts. He forces himself to keep staring and her lips quirk upwards, just slightly. “My name isn’t important, is it?” she says, softly, straight to him. Fitz swallows.

Jemma’s knife digs deeper and the girl inhales sharply. “I don’t really like that you’ll talk to my partner but not to me.” Fitz bites back a grin. “Hmm – your blouse is very blue.”

“Skye?” says Fitz, kneeling forward. They pin the girl – Skye, they’ve decided once Jemma nods with a small grin – against the corner, but she’s still sitting straight. Something glitters on her neck and Fitz gently pushes Jemma’s hand out of the way to grab onto the necklace. “Pretty.”

Skye stiffens when his hand grazes her skin and Fitz loves that he’s no longer uneasy. “My – best – my dad’s partner – gave me that,” she says, words cracking against her sore throat. Fitz and Jemma exchange a look – she’s a talker.

“Well, we should leave your best friend a present, shouldn’t we? Return the favor?” Fitz snaps the necklace off of Skye’s neck, leaving a red noose. He turns to Jemma with a small wink. “May I?”

Jemma blinks. “Fitz – “ Fitz raises an eyebrow and Jemma smiles before nodding.

While Fitz reattaches the necklace for Jemma, Skye begins to fight against her ropes. They ignore her as Fitz’s finger caresses her skin. “I love you,” he says before kissing her lightly on the nose. Jemma smiles and kisses him on the throat.

“So finger or tongue?” she says, turning back to Skye. Fitz suspects the she aims the question at him, but Skye’s eyes narrow.

“Do you really think I’m going to answer that?” asks Skye, flames still dancing in her glare. “Do you really think I’m actually going to make this _easier_ for you – “

“So tongue then,” says Fitz, his hand over Skye’s mouth, and he takes tiny pleasure in her warm breath on his hand. Jemma nods.

Fitz holds Skye and Jemma gets to work.

* * *

He wonders how he’s able to stand. It’s probably May’s hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly, her eyes switching between their dead comrade and the girl he refuses to look at.

“Goddamn it, Ward,” says Phil under his breath, leaning against the wall as forensics slips past them. “You couldn’t have just taken the damn gun – “

May says nothing, just letting her hand intertwine with his and squeezing tightly.

Phil wants to scream, wants to punch someone. Instead, he walks towards the back corner, now lit by artificial lamps. May walks behind him slowly, but he gags before she reaches him.

White and pink flowers adorn the shrine, built from stray flesh and cracked bones. On top of a bed of bloodied sheets rests a lone tongue, pierced straight through the center with a golden earring.

Phil turns to vomit, but even before he does so, May smashes the shrine with her foot. Her hands rest on his shoulders as he struggles to regain breath. “There was no body?” he chokes out. May shakes her head, eyes shadowed and soft. The nausea rolls through him once more.

“We have to stop them, Phil,” says May. The charm on her wrist hits his arm when she starts to pull back and he can still see a tiny girl bouncing as she pushes the box into May’s arms.

Phil shakes his head, his chest clenching painfully. “We have to kill them.”


	3. frown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There’s a quirk in the girl’s lip and a tiny bite in his smirk and May’s spine tingles." AU: Coulson and May track down Fitz and Jemma, but getting out alive is another task all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Julianna. Happy birthday!

May sips her coffee.

The doorbell rings when two people slip into the café, hands intertwined and gazes locked. There’s a quirk in the girl’s lip and a tiny bite in his smirk and May’s spine tingles.

“It’s them,” she says quietly, taking another sip of coffee and blinking twice. Beside her, Coulson frowns. “Definitely them,” she says when the boy asks the waiter for the booth closest to the door, his rough Scottish accent clashing sharply with his sweet tone. The girl scans the counters and the tables and pauses when she reaches the table where May sits.

The woman stares, hard lips and curious eyes, and May just smiles and stares back.

Coulson’s fist clenches under the table, but May rests her hand on his. He breathes out slowly, deeply, before relaxing in her grip. “They’re going to know they’ve been made,” he says, and May suspects his other hand is buried deep within his pockets, just beside his gun.

“Maybe,” she says, “but they know they can’t run. Not anymore.”

Even as May turns back to the pair, leaning close together with little space between them, seamlessly woven into a tangled web, their hushed voices carry easily to her earpiece.

“ _They’re here_ ,” says the boy, low voice barely tinged with fear, but May notices the girl’s fingers drawing circles on his palm. “ _We can still get out of here – “_

 _“Fitz,”_ says the girl, small smile comforting and warm despite the clinical coolness of her eyes, “ _it’s either us or them. It’s always been us or them.”_

 _“Fitz and Simmons,”_ he says, voice softening into a too-familiar affection that sets May’s heart ablaze, “ _us against the world.”_

Simmons leans in for a kiss, and they linger together in silence. Her eyes are closed, but he looks at her, studying her eyelashes and her nose and her lips and her hair. He’s taking a picture, May suspects, calculating the time and the place and the exact moment. It’s almost romantic, because his fingers graze her skin and she looks at him with light in her eyes. But Fitz kisses her again, whispers in her ear, and before May can blink, the first gunshot shatters the waiter’s skull.

May grabs Coulson and pulls him under the table.

“The bug couldn’t pick up the last bit,” she says, her own gun cradled in her arms. Coulson’s staring at Fitz, though, fire in his eyes. “Phil.”

He turns to her. “They’re her age, Mel. How - “

“Later,” she says, watching Simmons twirl a blade between her fingers. The blood seeping from the waiter stains her black converse, but Simmons only seems to appreciate the new patterns before walking towards the cashier.

The blade grazes the woman’s neck and Simmons whispers in her ear. Fitz, meanwhile, digs around the back of the counter, shooting anyone who moves in the kitchen. He places a plate of scrambled eggs and waffles on the table - the blood looks like ketchup.

“If anyone wants to live for just a bit longer, you should stand now and move to the counter,” says Fitz, loudly and firmly, pausing to grin at Simmons. She returns his grin before carving her knife in the back of a man who freezes right before her. He dies coughing up blood and pus.

Coulson looks at May. She knows what he’s about to do before his does it, but she can’t reach for him and pull him back, because he slips out from under the table and moves to the counter. The distraction - for Fitz observes each subject with narrowed eyes and Simmons dissects her prey with concentrated precision - leaves her time to crawl to the back corner, hidden in shadows, with the right angle to fire off exact shots.

When Fitz reaches Coulson, he takes an extra step forward. Fitz moves to open Coulson’s jacket but before he can blink, Coulson has Fitz at gunpoint, the cool metal burning against the murderer’s forehead.

But Fitz smirks. “India?”

“Romeo.” Just as May hides in the darkness, so does Simmons, who pops out from behind Coulson. The device in her hands slips onto Coulson’s neck and the electricity swims through his veins, leaving him withering on the floor.

May can’t see completely, the setting sun hiding behind trees and the abandoned buildings, but she does hear the click of the revolver as Fitz reloads. She hears another four bullets, four bodies slump to the floor. She hears Simmons giggle.

She sees Simmons reaching into a corpse and pulling out a heart before frowning and tossing it aside. She also sees Fitz pull out rope from seemingly nowhere - his jacket expands, May notes, when his profile angles deliberately - and lift Coulson upright.

May bites back the relief when Coulson stirs, eyes opening slowly, breathing evening when Fitz taps his head roughly with the barrel of his gun.

As Fitz binds Coulson’s wrists together with rope covered in menthol, Simmons kneels before him. Her finger traces his nose before pausing on his neck. “Our necklaces match,” she says, pulling out a familiar, thin golden chain. May bites her lip, steeling her arms into her chest. The shadows cover her for the moment, but with beady eyes constantly scanning, May knows her margin of error is very slight.

Coulson, however, stiffens noticeably and Fitz raises an eyebrow. “You must be a friend of Skye’s.”

Coulson frowns, wrinkles lined in red swirls, but Simmons shakes her head. “I don’t think he’s a _friend_ ,” she says, the curious smile lifting her hand to graze over the man’s cheek. “The infamous dad.”

May bites down on her lip. A girl laughing in the morning as she twirled in her sundress and May chiding her for being too loud - the memory recedes just when Coulson narrows his eyes, jaw locked. “What did you do to her?”

Fitz and Simmons exchange a look over their victim’s head, the latter slightly surprised but the former mostly amused. “Well,” says Fitz, moving beside his partner to face Coulson, “she was quite the talker - so Jemma here needed to fix that.”

Coulson’s eyes flash and May’s grip tightens around her weapon.

Simmons stands behind Fitz now, fingers lightly caressing through his thick cardigan, chin resting on his shoulder. Her soft smile sings in her words. “But I have to say, that body of hers has proven to be quite useful - that guy over there,” she says, tilting her head towards the man with pus still seeping out of his unmoving mouth, “he’s the result of very careful experimentation with certain chemicals.” Simmons’ grin is serene and cool, but Coulson shifts under her gaze even when she steps over to the man. “Skye’s blood proved to be the key ingredient. Thank her for us, will you?”

Fitz laughs when Coulson grits his teeth. The silence in his speech clashes with the spitting insults filled in his glare and May exhales deeply to keep herself poised.

Fitz bounces on his knees, pulling out his gun and letting the metal trace circles along Coulson’s jaw. “So through the head,” he says, aiming in between Coulson’s eyes, “or through the heart.” The gun lingers on his chest and Fitz taps it twice, frowning thoughtfully. “Jemma?”

“Heart,” she says without looking up, hands covered in blood and pus and spit. May chews her lip in an attempt to not gag. Studying the cracks in the man’s bones, Simmons mentally outlines veins and scars.

“Perfect,” says Fitz, eyes locked upon Coulson’s. The gun digs into his chest, but Coulson remains rigid, his dark eyes the only evidence of the rage that flares. “I’m going to shoot you in the chest.” Fitz speaks with flat tones, studying the gun as if looking through metal and seeing mechanics that twitch under his fingers.

May inhales when Coulson relaxes his jaw. “Okay,” he says, voice steady and soft and May sees him embracing the tiny girl as she bounced with tales of computers and adventures and school. “Bet I’ve seen better.”

Fitz presses the gun harder against Coulson’s chest. His frown screams. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” says Coulson, not at all carefully and not at all deliberately, “that you’re unoriginal. I could probably show you better ways to kill a man.” The flash of red that lifts Coulson’s gaze from Fitz to Simmons catches fire, burning away at the fragile composure built between Fitz’s shoulder blades. “I could show you on her, maybe.”

The control snaps and the fire burns and Fitz drops the gun in order to squeeze his hands around Coulson’s neck. Coulson chokes off his last word and May struggles to keep her feet frozen. Another breath leaves him, suffocating against Fitz’s hands, but May sees the gun before anyone else.

The bullet lodges securely in Fitz’s ribcage, and his hands fall to his side when his heart shatters.

“ _NO!”_ The scream shatters the microscope in Simmons’ eyes – she flings her knife at Coulson, but the blade merely grazes his thigh. The trickle of blood leaving his skin clashes violently with the hole embedded in Fitz’s chest.

Simmons runs to Fitz, still screaming, cradling his face in her lap. She screams in between cries and when her cold eyes set Coulson on fire, May raises her gun and fires one single shot. Simmons falls, bullet to the brain, her fingers still laced through Fitz’s curls.

May finds it ironic – even in death, their skin and bones meld together, attracted to diminished flames and cold brains.

When she walks over to the intertwined bodies, May takes a moment to place limp hands together. But when Coulson groans, May frowns. Twisted rope mixes with his hands as he pushes down on his wound.

“What’s wrong?” she says, kneeling and sliding over to him. “It’s just a graze.”

The blood seeping from his wound is purple, royal and altered, and May’s eyes widen just slightly when Coulson grabs her hand. “Her knife – “ He leans into her, shoulders heavy but relaxed.

A swipe of metal in a tub of chemicals – May squeezes his hand. May knows he’s giving up when he kisses her shoulder, her hands too busy mixing with poisoned blood. “Ambulances are on their way – just hold on – “

“Mel,” says Coulson, still clinging to her hand, “thank you.” His face whitens slowly, from thunderous skies to thin clouds, his blue veins protruding noticeably in his neck.

May shakes her head, eyes burning, her tight grip on him the only reason her heart doesn’t crack from within. “No,” she says, pulling him towards her. Part of her understands she’s mirroring now, cradling his body to her chest, but most of her refuses to meet his eyes.

“Mel,” he says again, the little air he can use cool against her face, “I’ll see her again.”

May bites down the first sob, watching the tiny girl jump into her father’s arms, kissing his nose. “Tell her I say hi,” she says, whispering into his hair. “ _Phil_.”

Coulson suffocates in her arms, whispering gratitudes and apologies. His last words tickle her lips - “ _thank you for being here_ ” - along with his bloodstained kiss, and May only sets down the body when the first siren screams.

May finally cries in the darkness of the back alley, hands covered in blood and heart aching.


End file.
